


all these pieces of you (and you)

by cicak



Series: Episode fics for Hannibal S2 [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bodily Fluids, Evidence, Forensics, M/M, mild 2x01 spoilers, sexy evidence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 05:36:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1254868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicak/pseuds/cicak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No one expects to find anything, except Will Graham.”</p><p>She didn't mean it <i>literally</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all these pieces of you (and you)

It is with as much respect as possible to the sartorial gods that Beverly begins to take Hannibal’s wardrobe apart. There are techniques that all good forensics know how to use when they need to get every cell of interest out of the fabric, but Beverley went into the task with the seam ripper on the other side of the room. There’s the brute force method, where the owner gets a pile of neatly dissected fabric panels, a letter of compensation and a polite talk about the nature of crime-fighting, or there’s the other way. Beverly, in this case, is determined to get everything out without taking the pieces down to their base components. Her instructor once joked she could get DNA from a stone, but its all about being thorough, taking your time and having keen eyesight. There are the things you expect to see, flecks of skin caught in the hems of a jacket, a downy body hair caught by static lying translucent and invisible against the lining, skin oils on the thighs from the absent-minded touch of the hands. All are catalogued and prepared for analysis in their special way. There is a startling amount of DNA on even the cleanest of people’s belongings, and getting over that was the most difficult part of becoming a forensic scientist, the knowledge that everyone in the world leaves a smear of themselves everywhere they touch.

She takes it apart and then sets up to run the analysis. Chemicals on the right, loading up the tubes from right to left to go in the machine, everything documented and labelled and checked off in her mind as she runs the protocol. It is delicate work, yet deeply enjoyable. The mind needs to be entirely focused, meticulous and aware of everything but in a secure way. The first few times she did it without making a mistake was once she realised that she knew it in her bones, and running the PCR was akin to breathing.  
The machine runs for two hours, two hours put aside for lab chores, paperwork, world news and a bit of abusing the FBI’s lenient internet policy, so much that the time flies by. The machine beeps and she gets up to do the final analyses of its output. She does it again, just to be sure, before she pushes her chair back dramatically, even though there’s no one in the lab this late to witness her reaction, and lets out a huff of a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding in.

The cells don’t only belong to Hannibal Lecter. There are no cells from any of the Ripper’s victims. However, there is a significant amount of another DNA profile present, and the machine says it is Will Graham.

Epithelials, Hair, Cowper’s Fluid, Semen, Saliva. All with a neat, matching DNA output.

 

She finds it impossible not to think about the findings for the days that follow. She wrote the report, included everything, but it is currently in Jack’s enormous inbox and slowly spreading through the lab like gossip of wildfire, like yelling fire in a theatre. 

Will’s DNA was everywhere on one particular suit. The epithelials implied that he’d worn the jacket against bare skin. There were body hairs with the skin tag still attached embedded against the arms of the fabric that you wouldn’t see when worn as intended, over a shirt. She can’t help but imagine how it would look on him. Hannibal’s chest measurement was impressive, a body kept in top condition for a man of his age, while Will is delicate, fragile, with small shoulders and a tight rib cage beneath his dishevelled clothes. The jacket would hang heavily on him in the shoulders, maybe even run a little long in the arms. The image of Will, topless in Hannibal’s heavy winter windowpane check, was incongruous and yet somehow romantic, a chivalrous gesture that seemed fitting of Dr. Lecter, however much of a strange feeling it was to apply that to them at all.

The pants though, oh lord. They were a novel in of themselves.

Her investigator brain reconstructed the scene as a reflex of her many years of training and practice. For the sheer amount of transfer it would have to have been Will naked with Lecter pressed against him. Probably against a wall, thinking of their relative heights. Will’s fingers were clenched so tight against his upper arms that he left marks, gripping hard for leverage or pulling Hannibal harder against him (as implied by the marks, and the epithelial cells and sebum from sweaty fingertips). Will would have had at least one leg wrapped round the back of Lecter’s calf (as indicated by a single coarse brown hair caught in the turn up), perhaps the other balancing on the floor or wrapped somewhere else, doing so without dropping evidence. The rest of it was easy, they would have been caught in each other, both rocking, rutting hard against each other (as told by the amount of Cowper’s fluid on the inside and outside of the crotch, from two separate donors). It finished there, at least for the start. There was evidence of Will biting Hannibal’s shoulder as he came (saliva on the shoulder and a trace of semen caught in the crease of the button loop’s seam. So easy to miss when cleaning up afterward). The whole thing was incredibly sordid and shocking and now caught in her head every time she sees the files or hear’s Will’s name in the office or on the news. She wonders when it happened, whether there would be a decay on the samples that could indicate how long they’d been there. She wonders if it was the only time, or whether it had just been the only time they’d been too desperate for each other not to get fully undressed.

Hannibal was impossible to avoid, in his new role as consultant psychological profiler. He sees her at the crime scene, making sure to catch her eye over the rotting corpses, and she looks away quickly before she can catch herself, knowing he caught her embarrassed reaction.  
He brushes past her later on the way back to his car, and murmurs so quiet she could barely hear him. “I hope you enjoyed the suits, Miss Katz.”

His suit looks exactly the same as the one she processed, even though that one is hanging in the lab on a wooden hanger.  
She imagines that if she looks hard enough she could make out the individual fingernail marks in the weave.

**Author's Note:**

> I took Beverly's line a little too literally and then ran with it.  
> In a fit of madness, I'm going to try to write something for each episode of season 2. Come wish me luck on my tumblr: [cicaklah.tumblr.com](http://cicaklah.tumblr.com)


End file.
